Hope's Edge
by Little Bird
Summary: Her fingers clutched the operations table beneath the dradis console in the dark. Set after Season 3, lightly AR.
1. Prologue: A Why

Hope's Edge

By: Little Bird

Disclaimer: I do not own that which does not belong to me, obviously. I'm just having fun, making no money. Please don't sue.

Category: Spoilers through Crossroads Part II, lightly AR.

Teaser: Her fingers clutched the operations table beneath the dradis console in the dark. Sweat made the glass slippery...

Story Notes: I want to thank my beta readers: Geebersjen, Emma and my brother for their tireless efforts on my behalf. Especially Geebersjen. She has encouraged me and kept me going. I owe her a debt of gratitude as well as work. ;) Her dedication to something not her own is remarkable. Thank you so much! You have all made me look at my work in different ways and you will see your influences throughout. Chocolate for all of you!

In some ways, this story is speculative of Season 4. There are no spoilers here that I know about because I don't read spoilers. So if you know a spoiler and I happen to be right about it, please keep in mind that, for me, it's just a speculation. Oh, and don't tell me I'm right because I don't want to know! ;)

**Chapter Note: **Some of you may recognize A Why from its previous posting. It has been given a substantial face lift for its prologue role in the afore-promised larger work. I hope you'll give it a re-read as a lead in to Hope's Edge.

**Prologue: A Why**

The furniture cast spectral shadows in the gloom of the deserted office. From her vacant chair, Adama's gaze moved automatically to check the number on the white-board. It contrasted its background harshly even in the weak illumination of the safety lights. The admiral's gaze did not linger and he concentrated instead on her desk. He included her unexpected absence in his assessment of the model of her political battlefield: the angle of the papers, her wireless, the phone she talked to him on every day, her pen, the photo of herself and Billy and her glasses.

She did not usually leave her glasses just anywhere, but now they crouched under a leaning stack of files as if they had been brushed aside in a moment of distraction. The leather notebook containing the president's schedule further jeopardized the files beneath it by perching precariously off-center. It lay open to a page in the recent past. The clock, askew, reported the time: 0213 in the morning. Her lamp intended to leap off the desk with the slightest provocation. Adama straightened both. A tea stain marred the corner of "Seating Arrangements for the Trial of Former President Gaius Baltar." Careless and slovenly were not words Adama would choose to describe Laura Roslin.

The surface of the desk felt cold and smooth under his skimming fingers. He tapped them once before proceeding with his now necessary visit to the head of state's private space. The dense material of the curtain whisked against the back of his hand before fluttering at his ankles upon entry into her quarters.

Wilted and prone against the back of the couch, her chin sat on the upholstery with her arms flopped over the edge out of sight. The wool shadows draping the room pinned Laura Roslin under their uncompromising weight. However, like a coat in a storm, the president sucked the heavy darkness around her voluntarily as she stared out her window at the star field. Adama could tell it provided her with neither warmth nor solace. Her feet were bare and negligently strewn out beside her. Even her blue satin robe, robbed of its color by the lack of light, hung haphazardly off her frame exposing her skin more than the president probably realized. Escaping the discipline of its mistress, her hair rebelled with surprising exuberance.

The room itself felt muted; bathed in shades of grey. Obscurity had granted it too a reprieve from color. Her blankets slopped over the side of her bed and onto the floor. A war had been lost on her dresser top. Near the edge, her hair brush lay face down next to a comb with missing teeth. The victorious nail file and clippers gloated from their high-ground, lined up precisely in front of the mirror. Yesterday's clothes lay in a gnarled heap scattered between the bed and the couch as if they had been kicked over a time or two.

"Madame President." Adama's coarse whisper broke the silence. He had left the doorway to stand beside the President of the Twelve Colonies between one thought and the next.

"Admiral," she said slowly in a twin whisper, not taking her eyes from the star-scape in front of her.

Adama squatted beside the end of the couch to be eye-level with the her. Laura Roslin's eyes remained resolutely fixed on the tiny glowing orbs in the distance. The normally emotive bluish-green spheres stared blankly ahead devoid of all but the slightest twitches of motion. The rest of her face belonged to a marble statue, adamantine and unchanging.

"Are you cold?" A rusted murmur.

"Yes."

"Ok." Adama rose stiffly to grab a blanket from the floor beside the bed. With it in hand, his foot accidentally dragged her suit jacket by a sleeve along with him. The jacket shaken gently from his boot, he stepped around the other articles of clothing. The admiral pooled the excess blanket over her feet before distributing the rest evenly over her unmoving form. At her shoulders, the ends of her hair grazed his hands. He compared their texture to slick, cool filaments of glass while he tucked the worn fabric around her. He felt her tense slightly with his touch but she still did not move to face or otherwise acknowledge him.

A concession to his age stiffened joints, Adama moved a chair to where the president seemed to have fused with the couch. Seated he could see her arms hanging listlessly between the back of the couch and the bulkhead beneath the window. The blanket would not help her undoubtedly frigid hands. He stared out into the blackness too, waiting.

Finally she spoke in half voice, "I'm trying to decide," her tongue flicked over her lips, "what to do."

"Ok." Adama maintained his whisper, crusty and worn out from long use. He waited for her to come to the important theme on her own without his prompting.

"This time," Roslin blinked twice, "this time, I thought I should include you in my decision." The president's hands clutched at each other briefly. This was the most motion he had seen from her since his arrival.

"This time," Adama echoed working to keep the tempting but untimely wry edge from his voice.

"Since it affects you, I thought I should at least discuss it with you." Adama heard the leader of humanity swallow, then her breath hitched. "I'm not sure if I want to live." This last came out with a rush of air and a jumble of responses came to his mind. But none ever left his open mouth because she continued before he could fully process a proper reply."I've been sitting here for hours and I don't know if I want to live or not." She told the stars all of this sustaining her statuesque face.

Adama withheld verbal comment, but he gave her a sideways glance when he figured out what she meant.

"Yes." A quiet whisper.

Adama's breath stopped and he blinked hard, unsure where to go from there. "To live, or..." Adama whispered but did not finish his sentence. Maybe the impending darkness would not be able to hear their conversation if they were quiet enough.

"I've never faced a more difficult decision." Roslin hissed through her teeth, snatching Adama's gaze to her face with the abrupt change in affect. "Cottle says Diloxin is an option at this point, and of course, Chamalla, and Hera. What about Hera? I'm not sure I'd want another transfusion from Hera, even faced with death. I know what Diloxin does." The president's voice cooled to freezing, "How many times do I have to do this before I finally lose? Why should I, if I don't want to win?" She was silent for a time, "Haven't I given enough already?"

Unaccustomed to hearing Roslin take her own pain into account, Adama spoke without forethought, "Survival of humanity is enough; who else will do your job?"

From her response, Adama was not sure she heard him. "You know me," she insisted, "I'm not indecisive. And about this, of all things." He thought he heard disgust enter her voice. "I should want to live, gods know I have so much to do. But just the same, there's a part of me that just wants to hand in my resignation. You tried that, why not me?" Roslin snuffled quietly, "Then there's the prophecy. Maybe this is really it. Why bother to fight this time? So I can go through this all over again?" All emotion slid from her face and voice like water off a leaf. "There you have it. Die or save humanity, then die. I'm tired."

"Me too, Laura," he replied quietly. The admiral shifted in his seat before he deadpanned: "No fair leaving me to clean up the mess."

When at last she turned to look at him, it was a lack luster glare without even mock reproach. Even that faded weakly into cession and she returned her attention to dark space.

"That was in poor taste." Adama murmured.

"But you're right and that's the only reason I have even considered treatment at all."

"The only?"

President Roslin ignored him, "Bill, I have an ugly truth to confess." Adama could not imagine what could be worse than what she had just revealed to him."It's taken me since this afternoon with Cottle to realize it. When he told me I had cancer again," she paused blinking slowly and breathing for a moment before turning her head minimally to look at him out of the corner of her eye. She said simply: "I lost hope."

Adama released his breath but he did not find an apposite response before she continued.

"I've always considered myself a big picture thinker and I think it's time we both took a good look at things. Earth is no longer really a refuge. When the Cylons didn't know where we were going, we had a chance, a hope of hiding. Now, they know and are looking for it themselves. Can Earth provide us with the safe haven we need anymore? I doubt it. So what, I work my ass off, die of cancer, never see Earth and humanity perishes anyway? Why am I doing this?" With this fierce whisper, the savior of humanity turned her angry stare back to the black expanse.

Adama slowly got to his feet before propping one arm against the bulkhead. He leaned his head against it. The admiral pondered what he could possibly say to her. Now was hardly the time to discuss the prophecy or lay out his recent tactical musings. Choosing silence, Adama reached out to her physically instead.

Weaving his fingers between the strands of her hair, his hand gradually followed the contour of her scalp. His attention left his hand when he noticed Roslin's eyes open a fraction wider and he felt her stop breathing. When she began breathing again it came out as an almost voiced sigh; her eyebrows drew together and she sank deeper into the couch.

The hair slipped unhurriedly through his fingers and he perceived the change in temperature as his hand traveled away from her head. With effort Adama slowed his thoughts to match the rhythm of his fingers as he constructed his response: from warm, silken thread at the roots, to cool, wet glass at the ends and back to start.

"I believe," Adama's voice crackled when he spoke at last, "I believe you will find your why. You'll find it because that's who you are. During the attacks, you were faced with an impossible situation, but you pulled it out of the fire and humanity exists because of you. You knew, then, didn't you, about your cancer? It may take a while, but you will find your why, or you're not Laura Roslin." Adama's hand continued its rhythmic course through the president's hair as he murmured into the dark.

They watched the sleeping ships from their vantage point and the admiral made no attempt to keep his fatigued thoughts from drifting once he surmised he would get no reply from the president. Their breathing fell into sync as the quiet stretched and the only motion in the room was Adama's hand. Focus returned to Adama when he felt the last of the tension leave President Roslin's body and he recognized the slower respiratory pattern of sleep. His hand paused mid journey to rest on the back of her head and he turned to face her. Head lolled against one shoulder, her features relaxed as is only possible in slumber. He slid her hair behind her ear with the back of his hand and some time passed before the admiral silently bid her pleasant dreams.

Before he left, Adama hung up her suit in the closet and made the bed.


	2. Scene 1

**HE Scene 1**

The emptiness of dark space pressed in tangibly around the trapped fleet. It squished the air from the CIC and Laura Roslin simultaneously. The thunderstorm in Roslin's brain threw lightening strikes at her eyes and temples on an unrelenting schedule. She swallowed nausea induced surges of saliva and her professional image wavered. White robed figures in the Opera House on Kobol flickered in her mind and clouded her thoughts. Sweat coated the president's body before soaking through her clothes and her breath came faster than usual.

"Whoah! Galactica-Apollo: they're just drifting out here Galactica, it appears they just suffered the same power failure we did. Let's junk some toasters."

"Red Team-Starbuck: form up on me, let's hit 'em before they recover."

Through the haze of her discomfort, Roslin saw Admiral Adama blink and then give a minute head shake at hearing that voice over the wireless. Most of the CIC froze for a heartbeat. "Safe nukes, launch missiles at the Basestars, we'll take out as many as we can before they can power up. Continue jump prep for the fleet." Adama took a few breaths before speaking over the wireless again, "Apollo-Galactica Actual: what the HELL is going on?"

"I wish I knew," the distortion of the wireless amplified Lee's laughing, "I can see her, Dad, her ship's intact!"

"If she does ANYTHING strange, take her out!" Adama growled into the phone. He wet his lips and spoke to himself though Roslin saw that Tigh also heard him: "How's that possible?"

"Two Basestars destroyed, sir." Gaeta reported. "One remaining."

"Galactica-Apollo: Cylons have restored power, engaging."

"Woooooo! Eat shit and die motherfracker!" Kara Thrace's obscenities boomed through the CIC and chuckles echoed eerily throughout, but Adama's brow narrowed a fraction and he glanced at Roslin seeking her thoughts. Though she met his gaze, to her eyes he rippled as if in a heat wave. Her fingers clutched the operations table beneath the dradis console. Sweat made the glass slippery and it began to fog up around her white knuckles.

"Civies need about five more minutes, Admiral." Tigh's liquid murmur slithered into Roslin's ears.

"Engage Basestar, keep it away from the fleet."

The wind blew and the pounding of drums joined the storm in Roslin's head. She closed her eyes and lean fully on the table she already gripped in desperation. Head to toe trembling finally overwhelmed the president's efforts to remain composed. A sudden view of the CIC ceiling provided Roslin with the belated knowledge that she was falling, but conscious control had already eluded her.

Fuzziness receded and a dark purplish sky, sparkling with stars, came into focus. A cool wind ruffled the grass waving around her body as she lay sprawled on the ground. Stones loomed around her in a circle and the president knew without counting that there were twelve of them. For a moment, she just lay there breathing and letting her gaze wander before she began studying the stones more carefully. Large and dark, each stone displayed a constellation associated with one of the twelve colonies illuminated in bright jewels. Something was different though. They were rearranged, and the stars in the sky showed different constellations too.

The world slid sideways like toast falling off a plate. Hot white sprayed Roslin's view of the CIC ceiling as the deck plating viciously rebounded her head. The sharp grunt she heard must have been her own.

"Madame President, wake up!" Roslin barely heard Tory over the raging of her private storm. Lightening cracked like a whip as it struck the inside of her skull rendering her blind and nearly deaf for a moment. A moan escaped before she could stifle it.

Once her eyes had recovered from the most recent assault, she saw Adama grabbing the operations table as the ship bucked beneath them, "Return fire!" He barked. Roslin rolled on the deck away from Tory and threw up gracelessly on the cross hatched flooring. The ship pitched again and sent Tory sprawling away while Roslin's face impacted the deck through her still-warm puddle. Roslin sputtered and drooled uncontrollably while she tried to curl her self into a ball.

"Jumping!" That was Gaeta and then the ship stopped lurching like a mad eel. After a coughing fit, she gagged again and ended up spraying vomit through her nose. Roslin refused tears. Strength abandoned the president and her head met the deck yet again. Humiliation surfaced as she lay with her face in her slimy and cooling goo.

Some seconds ticked by before hands pulled her out of the foul liquid and Adama's voice ordered a medical team. He did not let go of her shoulders until they had arrived to put her on a gurney. She heard his voice as if through a long tunnel, he stated: "I'll be by as soon as I can."


	3. Scene 2

Disclaimer: I do not own that which does not belong to me, obviously. I'm just having fun, making no money. Please don't sue.

Scene 2

The dry movement of air over her acid-singed throat dragged Roslin to consciousness. Thunder murmured in her ears and her head hurt; someone had stuffed it full of feathers. Medical grade laundry detergent from the sheets around her joined the thundering feathers in her mind. Roslin could not reconcile this. After her eyes pried themselves open, they jerked sideways involuntarily and smeared her vision at first.

A crusty blink later, Roslin discovered she had a body and that it was intimately involved in her current predicament. The familiar monitor leads tugged slightly when she moved and the slimy, sticky, gel-like adhesive cooled her skin where it stuck. She found both hands inhibited. A glowing piece of plastic clamped its jaws around a finger on her right hand and the harsh, tape-covered IV buried itself into her left. From all of this, a thought solidified amid the discourteously loud feathers: _Last time this happened, I woke up part Cylon._

Grey and blue feathers swirled around the monitor. Some accumulated on top of it while Roslin watched her vital statistics march across the black screen in sharp complexes. A slow sine wave which corresponded to her breathing undulated beneath her heart beats. The changing numbers and moving colors absorbed Roslin's attention for several minutes and the feathers piled up on the bed around her. Drool hit the pillow before the president slurped.

"Ah, you're awake." Cottle appeared beside her; his words came slowly into her mind and she tried to focus on him. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Ssss. D'nno." That slurring fizzle impersonated her voice.

"That's what I thought. I know the Diloxin causes nausea, but your 'lytes and glucose were indicative of more than just a few hour's neglect. You passed out from low blood sugar and earned a nice concussion for your trouble. Eh, the scan showed a minuscule bleed, but it was so small that it barely earned the name contusion. I scanned again an hour ago and it hadn't changed so you'll have a nasty headache for a while, but you'll be fine. The meds we have you on for pain can cause serious respiratory depression combined with the Chamalla in your system, so we've got you on the monitors. Oh, and that tube goes into your bladder because we're giving you diuretics just to be on the safe side. No bathroom privileges for a while." Roslin's eyes widened and she shifted her legs, but he rushed on without her. "We've got you on TPN-that's the yellow stuff and the white stuff-" he pointed to her IV pole, "because you are probably too nauseated to eat anything. Brains do not do well without glucose and we need to correct your electrolyte imbalances. If all goes well, you can probably come off the drugs tomorrow morning and leave in the afternoon. Enjoy your vacation."

"Thsssmmph."

"Don't keep her up," the president heard him say as he slid out of her view to be replaced by another familiar figure.

"How you feelin'?"

"I'v-bin-wrs." Roslin picked up a feather from her bed and reveled in its softness. She drew its blade across her finger admiring its beauty.

Adama faltered in the process of positioning his chair next to her bed to give her a quizzical look. She took his small frown to mean she had drool on her face. The shoulder of her hospital gown made a convenient place to wipe it off. The admiral settled himself on the chair and he looked her in the eye before he offered his hand. She accepted his warm tether of skin. A sigh tumbled out of her and she lifted her eyebrows. Like a floating kite, she rocked on the wind. Her eyes lost focus. The president forgot about the bag of urine hanging off the bed.

"Glad yer here," she mumbled.

"I overheard Cottle, Laura." Even though Roslin felt foggier than Virgon's Hidden Coast, his reproach came through clearly. She met his gaze to find it conveyed concern along with his admonishment. "Low blood sugar. Colonial One _does_ have enough algae rations. How can I help you?"

"Ya could've air-locked 'im for me." Roslin brandished the feather at him and decided to take advantage of her medicinal excuse to tell Adama exactly what she thought of his recent behavior, slurred or not.

"There's always tomorrow."

"Quit procrastinating." Some of the feathers on the bed floated to the floor when she shifted her legs. Roslin exhaled and began to drift. She heard babbling coming from the general direction of her mouth, "The wind is so beautiful, blue and white. Feel it? I know it. It has a current. If I let go of you, I will blow away." Her eyes rolled wantonly about and instead of the admiral, Roslin saw a sky, blue and white, far above an immense ocean. "I'm flying!"

"Laura-?"

She cut off his dubious question as she ran over the top of him, "Fly with me, I have wings enough for both of us. There," she gestured with their hands in the direction of the landmass below her, "that will be our home. It's summer and the fields are gold. You will have to see them for me." Roslin laughed in delight as the wind caressed her feathers, she had feathers. A wing beat later, the shining, bluish-green, glass city appeared from behind a cloud. She vanished into darkness.

With a gasp the president opened her eyes and stared into the incredulous face of the admiral. The wind was gone. "What'd I say?"

"I am not really sure, but I think you were hallucinating."

"These are some drugs, you should try."

A real chuckle from the admiral, "I should let you rest." He squeezed her hand, "I'll come by in the morning and, if you're feeling up to it, fill you in."

There were no feathers anywhere.


End file.
